


Underwater Sandcastles

by crackinthecup



Series: A Cup of Chaos [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Utumno, just at the end, the dub-con tag doesn't apply all the way through
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 04:44:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7830802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First times never go quite like they are supposed to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underwater Sandcastles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kashyurio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kashyurio/gifts).



> Many thanks to the lovely @heavenlyeros on Tumblr for letting me use a line from one of her poems as the title, and to @cherryandcheek for discussing this scenario with me and being a fabulous enabler!

There had been no need to count the years in those days of seeming peace, when neither death nor blight had dimmed the splendor of Almaren. Even so Mairon knew that it had been long since he first heeded Melkor’s words: long slow cycles of golden light and silver glow, of purloined information and furtive meetings. 

To Utumno he had escaped in the wreck of Illuin and Ormal, but even to those Northern wastes the agony of the land had extended. Deep, deep beneath the piercing towers of the fortress, the earth rumbled and convulsed; the peaks of the Ered Engrin groaned, battlements shuddered, tunnels were blocked by fretful stone and new ones were delved to replace them. 

Initially Mairon had labored in the forges. It was work most to his liking, steady hammer-strokes, luminous rivulets of metal taking wondrous shape beneath his hands; polishing, perfecting, until the metal was smooth and lustrous, the design unlike any seen in Middle-earth. 

But his duties had changed. The forges were sunken in the bowels of the fortress where fire could best be harnessed, and the violence of the earth had crunched their westernmost section into rubble. As his lord’s lieutenant, Mairon had taken it upon himself to oversee the reconstructions, always with a firm hand, pushing for more, pushing for better, pushing for progress. To similar duties Melkor had then assigned him in the nethermost regions of the fortress where the tumult had been most grievously felt. It had been long and arduous labor, and the orcs, accustomed to construction work in the chill airs far above, disliked the heat of the subterranean passageways. 

Yet Mairon was partial to the warmth, and now he shivered and thought longingly of a cloak as he ascended to the higher levels of Utumno to give his report. Here, the corridors were loftier than the squat, sturdy passageways below. Flames flickered in brackets mounted upon the wall to Mairon’s left, brackets wrought at his instruction from black metal that gleamed and rippled like waves. To the right, narrow windows slanted to the world outside, and in the flutter of the flames Mairon could discern solitary snowflakes trickling out of the dark sky. 

He turned into a wider passage upon the left: the great thoroughfare leading to the throne room. Heads were respectfully inclined as he strode past, up a staircase of black marble, veined with white curlicues that caught the firelight to feed their own faint radiance. The great iron doors at the head of the stairs were open, spilling into a floor still of black marble, but threaded not only with white, but with gold and crimson, cerulean and deep violet, glimmering like gemstones. As soon as Mairon passed through, he felt the air change, droop, roil: he was aware of the hum of power snarling along the walls, greater than any he had felt within the confines of the world. It pulsed like gouts of blood seeping from a wound, always with a nebulous, pestilent core that yoked the very mountains to its will. Yet it was almost placid now, idle and content; it did not descend upon the hall with crushing intent to choke breath and daunt heart. 

Mairon halted primly at the base of the dais, bending into a graceful bow. As he straightened, he cast his eyes to the cruel throne above, and Melkor flicked an indolent wrist to signal that he could speak. 

“My lord,’’ Mairon began, clasping his hands behind his back and evenly meeting the Vala’s gaze. “The western caverns have been cleared and reinforced, and henceforth all who wish may remove there safely.’’ Many had Melkor lured into his service, and among them were willful spirits who would take no manifest shape. The only rumor of them was chill where there should be none, and beastly, broken voices scudding along the corridors. The underground was their realm, where they might be close to the few water sources still unfrozen in these harsh lands. For they liked the sound of running water, and were bitter over Ulmo’s dominion of the sea. 

Mairon spoke of expenses and of casualties, orcs caught at unawares in a storm of rubble, forever trapped until their flesh should wither and their bones grow old. He maintained eye contact, steady, unflinching; but his cheeks flushed with joy beneath Melkor’s undivided attention. It had been long since last they spoke. Melkor seldom descended to the lowest levels, where the smithies of Utumno blazed and orcs could make sport, if they would. Orc messengers scurried to and fro if communication was necessary. 

During his absence from Melkor’s side, Mairon had batted away the pangs of longing burdening his heart. Instead he had wrenched his thoughts to his work, and underneath always scratched the simple truth of it: he was Melkor’s lieutenant, yes, but he was still a subordinate; it seemed foolish, frivolous, to miss the company of his lord. 

Nonetheless, before repair work became his priority, they had been wont to ascend to high chambers none but Melkor used, or walk abroad into the wintry lands together. Melkor had plenty to teach, and Mairon plenty to impart: thoughts of his own that in Almaren had been constrained to silence, of taking what was and creating better. There were other moments too, rare moments, moments Mairon tried to prevent from becoming gilded in memory when surely they were nothing but trifles: stray touches, thoughtless as they seemed at the time, Melkor’s hand clasped about his shoulder in praise, or brushing his knee after wine had flowed freely between them. They sparked a different kind of longing in Mairon, something slick and brazen and heady, something _dark_. Telling himself he had half dreamed the insidious touches brought no succor. The feeling had stayed, and like a tenacious seedling, it had grown roots. 

And now his flush darkened as Melkor arose like some great mountain rearing its head above the dalliances of the world, coming to rest on the step just above the level of the floor. 

“Most apt you have proven in the task I set you,’’ he said, and a small, almost unguarded smile twitched onto Mairon’s lips. “You have greatly rewarded my trust.’’ 

“I thank you, my lord. I am ever pleased to serve.’’ 

“Are you now?’’ Melkor murmured, almost to himself, and his voice was low and dark as wine. He climbed down the last step of the dais, and the air seemed to become crisp, as though thought had calcified into intent. Mairon harshly willed himself into stillness: an instinct almost like a thrill bid him retreat. He told himself it was his sense of discipline that restrained his backward step. 

“My lord?’’ he questioned, brow furrowed, not understanding what his master was hinting at. 

Melkor smiled, a breath of fond laughter upon his lips, and Mairon felt the sound trill through his heart. “You command expertly, Mairon. You could drive armies, if you had a mind to.’’ 

“If that is your wish, my lord.’’ 

“Such a commendable answer,’’ Melkor chuckled. “Well has your name been chosen, yet I wonder: is there nothing in which you are not quite so admirable?’’ For all the silkiness of his voice, Mairon did not miss the ungentleness there, nor the flash in his lord’s eyes as though he were contemplating the breaking of continents; some well-oiled, clockwork thing in the Maia’s chest seemed to stutter, but Melkor seemed none the wiser as he continued, not waiting for a reply: “Do you desire no reward for your service?’’ 

“What I may or may not desire is immaterial,’’ Mairon said softly. “Any rewards I might merit are your province to govern, lord, and your decision to pronounce.’’ 

Melkor made a sound deep in his throat, a sound Mairon knew well: it was the greed of a forge-fire roaring into life, the glee of boulders crushing a new path into young grass. And then Melkor’s lips were pressed against his own, and hands were tight at his waist, and shock splintered and shivered through his core. He stood there unmoving for the space of several heartbeats, and suddenly he was aware that the great hall was echoing and empty around them, that the feel of his master so intimately close to him was shrieking through his nerves, blasting him asunder like lightning, a storm of desires pouring through the cracks before he could think of quashing them. 

He kissed Melkor back, a breathless, eager, welcoming parting of lips. His fingers curled into the front of Melkor’s robes so that mere impossible inches were left between them, the pulverizing tide of his lord’s power aching in his bones. And then the moment shattered: a wall of air firmly between him and the Vala, the chill of the throne room gliding across his burning cheeks. Their eyes met, startled gold into fracturing blue. Mairon bowed his head in a shuddering goodbye, fleeing before he could quite catch a glimpse of the amused smirk on Melkor’s lips. 

X X 

Too short a time elapsed until he saw his lord again. Time spent in the forges, huddling into hammer and anvil and sizzling metal, as the world outside slipped and skidded ahead amid snowdrifts and darkness. The fall of the hammer echoed in the hollows between his ribs. His eyes stung and watered with the smoke belched forth by the great furnaces. 

It was thus, bowed over a dazzling sword hilt, that the orc messenger found him. He was to make his way to Melkor’s chambers, and he chose to give no thought to the way his heart seemed to become misplaced at the summons, leaping, bruising itself against his ribcage. 

“Tell our lord that I shall be there presently,’’ he bid the messenger, who scarpered out with a bow. Yet Mairon did not move. He watched the firelight spring bright and blinding off the polished blade, and slowly, with pressure just shy of splitting the skin, he traced a fingertip over its keen edge. 

X X 

He had never been inside Melkor’s chambers before. The rap of his knuckles against the magnificent wooden door seemed entirely too loud—much like the thud of his heart. 

“How can I be of use, my lord?’’ he inquired as soon as the door had opened, in hopes of defusing the bundle of anxiety in his chest. And then he realized that Melkor had not stepped aside when he entered the room, that the Vala now stood far, far closer than propriety would dictate—and unbidden, memories of hands at his waist, of a desire reckless and bestial, scrambled to the forefront of his mind like a brand stirred to new agony. 

“Our last … _conversation_ ,’’ Melkor began, eyes sliding from Mairon’s own to his lips and flagrantly lingering there, “ended rather abruptly. I thought we ought to continue it.’’ 

Mairon could do nothing to prevent twin pools of color from simmering over his cheeks. Melkor glided closer still, palm coming up to cradle the side of Mairon’s face, and the Maia’s breath stuttered, lost somewhere in his throat. Melkor’s thumb sloped over the curve of his cheekbone, a fingernail dragging a sharp, stinging line behind his ear, making him shiver. Anticipation prickled along Mairon’s skin; his own breaths were deafening in his ears as he waited for the Vala to speak. 

“Tell me,’’ Melkor purred at last, “do you think of me when you touch yourself?’’ 

Mairon tore himself away in the landslide of panic— _he couldn’t know, it was impossible_. But Melkor’s fingers were firm around his wrist, voice dropping even further as if Mairon were a frightened colt: 

“No: stay.’’ 

Mairon had not yet disobeyed a command, and he would not start now. Unsurely he stood before the Vala, awaiting whatever vicious slap or reprimand Melkor deemed fit for impertinence such as his. He might as well have shamelessly admitted to the obscenities he nursed close to his heart; surely his dismay had been confirmation enough, and his lord would look sternly upon the unclean, unseemly doings of his lieutenant. By virtue of his pride alone he forced himself to remain still when Melkor loosened the hold he had on his wrist. 

But Melkor did not raise his hand against him; there was no rebuke to burrow beneath his skin. 

“Show me, Mairon, show me what thoughts you weave for yourself,’’ Melkor said instead, nearly crooning: soft, honeyed, enticing words. 

Mairon took long, gulping seconds to fully comprehend them. And when he did, he found that he could not dislodge the heartbeat flickering frantically in his throat. He had wanted this, yes; he wanted it still, and he could not deny that arousal frothed between his hipbones like waves whipped to tempest. Truth was threaded through his lord’s words as though impaled upon a spearhead. _Fantasies_ —he considered them little more than hidden, harmless thoughts to expedite the sordid needs he could not otherwise expunge from his flesh. He ignored the berating voice hissing through his mind: _why keep them secret, why veil them in deepest shadow and muffle the bliss you find therein, if they are as harmless as you think them?_

They were sweeter than this: sweeter than the unsteadiness of his fingers when he moved to obey, slowly, uncertainly unclasping Melkor’s robes. They were more perilous too, a hand crushed to his throat, fingernails clawing blistering lines of crimson down his chest, splitting him open, unevenly, shred by shred, tattered moans drooping from his lips like a defeated white pennant. 

Melkor guessed his thoughts, or else he felt his fingers pausing in their ministrations, clenching in the fabric of his robes. “Darkness does not flee from darkness. It welcomes communion, and casts fear to the Northern winds. And am I not darkness, Mairon? Come now, I bid you again: show me.’’ 

Yet Mairon remained still for a little while longer. He twisted the clasp caught between his fingers, this way, then that. He breathed: a shivering exhalation gusted from him. There had been danger beneath Melkor’s soft words, a rolling shrug of power, an edge that promised to cut; and whether it had been decided in ages lost to memory, or in that very moment, Mairon resolved not to shy away from it. He continued, loosening the fastenings upon Melkor’s robe so the Vala could peel the fabric off his shoulders, coaxing Melkor’s tunic out of his breeches. Then he paused, hesitating, catching his lord’s eye. 

“May I, my lord?’’ 

In answer Melkor pressed his lips to Mairon’s own, and it was not probing, it was not patient: it was ravaging. A moan bubbled in Mairon’s throat as Melkor’s tongue brushed against his own, and the sweetness of that sound crumbled into a whine when Melkor’s teeth closed over his bottom lip. 

“Yes,’’ Melkor breathed into the kiss, “you may.’’ 

With the utmost care, Mairon tugged the garment over the Vala’s head. He dragged his eyes over the hard, cruel planes of Melkor’s torso, smoothing a hand down the expanse of bared skin. Melkor’s flesh was cooler than his own, and as a spur of boldness guided his fingertips down the slant of a hipbone, Mairon thought of marble: perennial and alluring and sacrosanct. 

Melkor allowed him to touch as he would. Yet his own hands were not idle; they wandered, grazing the pulse thundering just beneath Mairon’s jawline, stripping him of his tunic, and of his boots and breeches also. A fire was stirring in the hearth, yet a chill air still breathed in the shadows. Mairon shifted, distinctly, pressingly aware of his nakedness. And as the cold swooped greedily over his skin, the flaming arousal within him guttered and dimmed. He remembered Melkor’s words to him, his talk of rewards, and he could not quite expel the thought that he was but a servant: surely this was not unlike a carrot dangled before a well-behaved beast; plucked out of his own prurient thoughts, nothing but a passing fancy to his master. 

Melkor laid a palm flat against his chest, fingers splayed wide over his heartbeat. “The greatest of my servants,’’ he murmured, and then he was tugging Mairon forward by the hand, fingers easily tangling with the Maia’s own. To the right of the grand antechamber an aperture opened, a doorway lacking a door: rich curtains dyed a deep crimson drooped across it, and in the firelight they furrowed like curdling blood. Beyond loomed Melkor’s bedchamber, and Mairon allowed himself to be led to the foot of the bed. 

Melkor turned to him again, not touching, keeping a sliver of distance between them. Mairon did not bridge it. Straight-backed and proud he stood before his lord, cock half-hard between his legs, but his eyes wandered and would not meet Melkor’s gaze. 

“Flimsy indeed I would deem your imagination, if there is nothing else you would do,’’ Melkor teased, he goaded, tossing the challenge high in the air for Mairon to catch. It was one prod too far for the doubts scuffling in Mairon’s chest: they dispersed as Mairon turned his focus to the desire still carving its way through him. He reached for Melkor’s breeches, unlacing them, aiding the Vala in drawing them over his hips. 

Mairon felt a glow diffuse along the inside of his ribs when he flicked his eyes downward, spotting his master’s erection: Melkor was pleased, he was enjoying himself, and a smile spilled over Mairon’s face. With a flare of confidence, a secret surge of relief, he pressed his palms against Melkor’s chest until the Vala lowered himself upon the bed. 

He was crowned in decadence, draped as he was over the silken sheets: luxurious, self-assured, smiling a smile that Mairon had seen once before, when messengers had come bearing news of devastation and victory; and at the sight something low in Mairon’s belly shuddered. On hands and knees he crawled forward until he was straddling Melkor’s waist. Melkor’s hands trailed down his sides in a caress, nails lightly scraping across his lower back. Mairon arched at the mild sting, and he crushed the mewl staining his lips to Melkor’s skin, to the hollow between jaw and neck. Melkor’s fingers were in his hair, the rumble in his throat was loud in his ears. Mairon closed his eyes, losing himself in the taste of his master as he nuzzled small kisses down Melkor’s neck, down his chest—down down down, until he paused at his hipbones and simply breathed. 

Melkor smoothed a swath of hair behind his ear, and Mairon glanced up, catching Melkor’s gaze, letting the hunger he found there bolt ravening through his own sinews. He huddled between the Vala’s legs. Tentatively he swiped his tongue over Melkor’s length, lightly licking at his very tip. Pleasure was flagrant in Melkor’s throat, a sound like lava bubbling through fractured rock. It emboldened Mairon: he parted his lips, slipping an inch or two into his mouth, curling his fingers round the base. He found that a shallow motion was most comfortable, and he flattened his tongue to the underside of Melkor’s erection, sliding his lips almost clear of the tip, then sinking back down again. 

Melkor’s fingers were loose in his hair, and he allowed him to continue for a few tranquil minutes, content to simply watch. Spurred on by lewd curiosity, Mairon took him deeper still, until Melkor’s tip nudged against the back of his throat. It proved an overly ambitious move: his throat convulsed, closing against the intruding pressure, and he made to pull away. And if he encountered resistance, if Melkor’s fingers over his skull momentarily tightened as though to keep him still, then he did not dwell on it. He took a moment to compose himself, to let his throat relax, and then would have bowed down again. 

Yet the fingers tangled in his roots most definitely did tighten this time, yanking him upward until his thighs were once more wide about Melkor’s waist. The pain erupting over his scalp only served to seep down into his belly, making him squirm. 

“As wondrous as your exploits were,’’ Melkor husked, stretching a hand to the bedside cabinet to withdraw a glittering phial of oil, “there is yet more that flesh can offer.’’ 

Mairon eyed the phial, watching as Melkor wrenched the cork off: how long had his lord planned this? But he did not have time to ponder such matters. Oil-slickened fingers reached for his length, swollen now to throbbing arousal by the taste of his master smeared over his tongue. Melkor took him in hand, twisting his fingers in a firm, breath-taking rhythm, made smooth by the oil, smooth and far too deft for Mairon’s reeling senses. And— _oh_ , it was glorious: Mairon mewled under Melkor’s ministrations, undone by the ecstasy purling within him, golden and drenching; earnestly he canted his hips into the Vala’s touch. His eyes had fluttered shut between one tottering inhalation and the next, and he did not see the smirk stormed across Melkor’s lips. The Vala’s thumb glided over his leaking tip, his other hand was kneading his hip, and Mairon tossed his head back, a desperate, tumbled moan tearing from him as he felt his peak spiking closer. 

And then the hand wrapped round his length loosened: sliding away, slicking a path between his legs. 

“My lord?’’ he asked hoarsely, longing for Melkor’s hand to return to his cock as arousal dulled within him. He drew a sharp breath at the unfamiliarity of fingertips grazing over his entrance, wriggling his hips, his thighs tensing about Melkor’s waist. 

“Shh,’’ Melkor breathed, returning a placating hand to Mairon’s length, stroking more softly now, more slowly. “Stay still, Mairon.’’ 

And Mairon tried to: he tried to do as his lord instructed. The fingers round his cock were sending desire scudding and flurrying in his belly anew, and the endless teasing touches brushed over his entrance were not unpalatable. But there was pain, a shock of discomfort, when Melkor nudged a single slick finger inside him. Mairon grunted, drawing his eyebrows together in a frown, as Melkor prodded deeper. 

“Hush now,’’ Melkor crooned, rubbing over the crown of Mairon’s length, coating his shaft in the moisture he found there. But he did not withdraw his finger. Rather, he added a second, opening him further, angling them just so: Mairon gasped in the wake of jolting, suffusing ecstasy, hips stuttering into the touch until Melkor’s fingers were entirely sheathed within him. Melkor settled for a slow, delicious rhythm, and it was not long until the hurt of the stretch receded. His thighs began to tremble about the Vala’s waist, fingers clawing little furrowed handholds in the bedcovers. 

He whimpered when Melkor eased his fingers out of him. The Vala snorted at the little yearning sound, and pleasure was not yet so potent in Mairon’s limbs to wholly banish shame from his mind; dollops of crimson blazed high in his cheeks. Yet he did not avert his gaze as Melkor liberally drizzled oil over his own length. Mairon chewed on his lower lip, trying to still the trepidation that rattled and writhed in his chest; the prospect of pain blared all too urgently within him. 

It hurt. Ardor faded and flickered out when Melkor first pressed into him, and he cried out, he turned his head away to stare dimly into the hearth and breathe through his distress. Fingers were back at his cock, working in a steady rhythm; he could feel Melkor’s other hand rubbing soothingly over his thigh. Bit by bit, breath by labored breath, his body grew accustomed to the stretch, his flesh remembered that it was not eternally steeped in pain. Of his own accord he sank further onto Melkor’s length, and the former glory of the sensation flared back into life when the head of the Vala’s cock settled snugly against his prostate. 

“There we go,’’ Melkor cooed, in a voice rich with gloating indulgence. Experimentally Mairon rocked his hips back into the Vala. It deepened the angle, but the agony had mellowed, it was now dull and distant; and Mairon found that he could roll his hips and mewl with the delight of it. The soft crackle of the fire, the ache in his thighs spread wide about Melkor’s waist, the need to breathe—it all bled from him as he continued to move, his senses sharpening to the irresistible feel of Melkor’s length inside him, to the fierce quiver low in his belly. 

Melkor’s free hand was wandering over his inner thigh, thumb sinking into the soft flesh there to rake a welling line of crimson almost down to his knee. The touch was sharp, cutting, wrenching a gasp from him. He ground down against his master, and he smiled at the grunt grating in Melkor’s throat, a smile a little too reckless, a little too esurient. Melkor growled, and Mairon felt the hand on his thigh slithering upward, idly plucking at his nipple, wrapping around his throat just below his chin. 

The pressure was not strangling. All the same, he felt air stream into his lungs a little less easily, and he drew a scraping breath as newfound ecstasy seethed within him. Melkor angled his palm so his fingers tore at the side of Mairon’s neck. His thumb slipped past the Maia’s lips slack with relish, hooking behind his teeth, coaxing his jaw open. Their eyes locked as Mairon’s tongue lapped at the pad of his thumb. Mairon rolled his hips downward, and Melkor deliberately timed a savage thrust to meet him. 

It was enough: Mairon ripped his gaze away as his climax clove its ruin through him. Ragged moans fussed in his throat, and he could not quite manage to silence them as he quaked with the intensity of it all. Melkor stroked him through his bubbling, boiling rapture, hand remaining light and thrilling at his throat. 

Ever so slowly Mairon floated down from his peak, giddy and panting and aglow. As he remembered how to breathe, the hand clasped round his throat slid away. Yet he discovered that he ached with the feel of Melkor’s length still buried inside him. He winced as he lifted himself off the Vala, and Melkor was there, hands steadying his hips, softly shushing him until grateful warmth flushed down his breastbone. Melkor moved away, coming to rest on his knees behind him, and Mairon made to turn around, to lie down and ease his sore muscles. 

But Melkor’s fingers were like steel when they hooked into his hip, bruising, preventing movement: forcing him to remain on hands and knees. And when Melkor aligned the head of his cock with his entrance, he realized what his master intended, he realized that Melkor was still hard, and his insides staggered in a horrible, icy churn. Not yet, he was still too sore, his muscles were still too feeble; he had merely wished for respite—ignoring Melkor’s needs would be against the very fabric of his being. And innocently he opened his mouth to ask his lord to wait. 

But Melkor was already moving, plunging inside him, and all he could do was grit his teeth against the stabbing agony of it (and whether it was by some twisted, unconscious design that Mairon bit back his plea by a fraction of a second too long, none could ever say). He let his lord mantle him in the violence of his desires. He told himself it was his choice: to remain silent, to allow Melkor his fair share of the pleasure. The scrape of Melkor’s length over too-sensitive tissues was not unendurable. He took comfort in the Vala’s apparent delight, in the sounds gnashing low in his throat, in the firmness of his fingers clawing at his hips (and if in the days to follow he trailed gentle fingertips over the bruises there, if there was a modicum of the lofty softness of reverence in his touch, if he looked inside himself and found a thrill that was not abhorrence—what of it?). 

He was only thankful that it did not last long. 

Melkor pressed deep inside him when he came. He remained still for the space of several wild heartbeats, though his hands at Mairon’s hips softened, drooping down over his ass in a touch that Mairon might have called praiseful. Slowly he pulled out, and Mairon crunched a tiny grunt of pain between his teeth, swallowing it bleeding back into his belly. He felt seed drip warm and slick down his thighs. Melkor ran a thumb over his entrance, over the mess splattered there, and unbidden, retreating from the touch, Mairon turned around to sit atop the bedcovers. Discomfort pulsed through him like an infected little heart, yet Melkor cupped his cheek, gentling the grimace off his face. His touch felt pleasantly cool against Mairon’s flaming skin, cool and soothing, and despite himself he nuzzled into Melkor’s palm. 

Yet the moment felt like it had been stolen, a furtive little shred of comfort, and soon it faded away when Melkor sprawled himself against the coverlet like a great blood-slaked leviathan. Mairon felt uncertainty prick and scold at him at the thought of sharing a bed with his master. Somehow it felt more intimate than what had already transpired. 

“I …’’ Mairon swallowed; his throat felt dry. “I should go, my lord. There is work to be done.’’ 

“Nonsense,’’ Melkor said, slinging an arm about his lower back and drawing him close. “There is no matter demanding haste. Your work will not depart while you take rest.’’ 

His voice was firm, yet not without a lilt of tenderness. With a lighter heart, a weary, tentative smile about his lips, Mairon sank into the pillows beside his lord. 


End file.
